Gold Fever
by Seinaru Kibou no Tenshi
Summary: (Chapter 8) During the California Gold Rush, a miner's daughter become a thief tries to strike it rich in her own way, but what happens when she is discovered by another, better thief? [Gambit, Rogue, Others]
1. Good Fortune

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GOLD FEVER

PART ONE

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FORTUNE, CA.

1853

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In a town like Fortune, there's a sucker born every minute. . . .

. . . Not that anyone in their right mind would call Fortune a town. Kindest way to put it would be to call it a collection of tents clustered around a saloon and a church. (No prizes for guessing which of those two is the most popular with the locals.) From a distance, when the grass blows in the wind and the tents blow with it, it looks almost like a sea with a hundred white ships on it. You almost think it's beautiful at times, until you realise there ain't any gold here or in any of the other tent-towns that have sprung up across the West. There ain't gold anywhere. 

Daddy never accepted that. God knows he never accepted that. Rain, snow or shine, he worked his claim every day of the year. It didn't even matter if it were Thanksgiving or Christmas. You could find him there from first light until after the sun had set. For ten years, his life was that claim. He didn't care he hadn't found anything bigger than a nugget the size of his fingertip. He always believed the next day would bring the big prize, the one which would make him a millionaire. The claim damn well killed him too. There wasn't no mystery about his death. One day, he dug too deep and forgot to support the tunnel. He was too caught up in gold-fever, too desperate to get rich too quick. Everything collapsed on him. By the time they pulled him out, it was too late. He was dead. 

You'd think after that, his daughter would know better. Sad thing is that I love gold as much as daddy did. I might even love it more than he did. I just go about getting it a different way. Let other people scratch away at the earth with spades and pick-axes. Let others pan in water until their bones ache and their fingers are numb. Let others argue over where their claim ends and their neighbour's begins. That ain't the way I want to get rich. I got my own way, and it ain't failed me yet. (Hell, I don't know why I'm being coy about what I do. It ain't like I'm ashamed of it.) I'm a thief, and a damn good one at that. 

Do you want to know the trick of being a good thief? It's all about picking your target. In that way, it's a lot like mining. People say you can tell which claim is rich by looking at it, by tasting the soil, by running it through your fingers. You gotta do the same with people. You gotta be able tell which ones are rich and stupid, and which ones ain't. Take that man in the corner. Yeah, that dark-haired man with the fancy, grey suit and the silver pocketwatch he keeps checking every few minutes. He still stinks of the city. He's still used to polite society where people drink tea with their fingers sticking out, eat cucumber sandwiches and say "please, ma'am" and "thank you, ma'am". He ain't even thinking that he might be robbed. Gentlemen ain't robbed where he comes from. Besides, if he's dumb enough to keep flashing his wares, he deserves whatever he gets. 

In fact, I think I'll be the one to give it to him. . . .

* * *

Nervously, Scott Summers pulled his watch out of his pocket and checked the time. It had just gone nine, and Samuel Guthrie was meant to have been here a half-hour ago to discuss the fist-sized nugget he had found. He hoped the miner had not changed his mind about dealing with them. After the initial rush that had made many men and women into millionaries overnight, good finds were becoming increasingly rare. It had been weeks since he had seen a nugget larger than his fingernail that wasn't fool's good. And it had been months since he had seen one as large as the miner had described in his telegraph. 

Replacing the watch, he pulled a copious, red-spotted handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead with it. He loved his job and was good at it, but having to visit these tent-towns was a decided disadvantage of working as an agent for Midas Gold. They were always mercilessly hot, and inhabitated by people who looked as if they would shoot you as soon as look at you. No matter whether he were in Fortune or Lucky Digging, he knew there would always be men hunkering at the saloon, unwashed and unshaven, while two-penny whores fluttered around them and cooed like brightly-coloured birds. He shuddered. It was true what Reverand Peace said about being away from civilised society having a degrading effect on the morals of people. 

"Looking for a good time, sugah?" a whisky-husky voice drawled from behind him, and he felt a hand trace a line down his back. The smell of a woman's cheap perfume, like artificial violets, hung heavy on the air. He went stiff, brushing off her arm with his one. 

"Miss, I must protest. . . ." 

"You must protest?"

Before he could move to stop her, the prostitute - for that was the only thing the impossible woman could be - slid onto his lap in a flurry of scarlet silk and lace, and slipped her arms around his neck. Suddenly, Scott found himself staring directly into a pair of eyes that were as deep and green as a summer meadow. Beneath them, across her nose, was a gold-dusting of freckles. Tumbling in loose curls around her shoulder, her hair was chestnut, apart from a white stripe at her forehead, like a streak of iron. This whore was not as young as she looked. Her red-painted lips curved into a slow smile, as he stared at her without a word. 

"Like what you see, sugah? You could see more, if you're prepared to pay." 

"Please remove yourself from my person, miss. I am a member of the church, and I am not interested in your . . . your wares," he said carefully, enunciating each word. 

"Suit yourself." 

With the fluidity of molten gold, she slipped off of his lap and sauntered back across the room to her post by the bar. Sweating profusely now, Scott Summers wiped his face with his handkerchief and hoped like crazy that Samuel Guthrie would arrive soon. 

* * *

Battling to keep a self-satisfied smirk off her face, Kate slipped the wad of bills that she had taken from the city-slicker's pocket down the front of her corset. It rested between her breasts, as soft and as warm as hope. The two-penny whore routine always worked on boys fresh from the city, she thought as she leaned against the bar and turned a sultry smile on the man sitting next to her, who was too drunk to notice or care. That kind of boy was still too afraid of damnation to risk his soul in a brief dalliance with a prostitute, much as he wanted to do so. Miners saw hell every day of their lives, so grew accustomed the the idea of spending their afterlives in the same way. 

Casually, she allowed her eyes to drift to the grandfather clock in the saloon's corner. It would look suspicious if she left straight away. She would wait ten minutes, then she would saddle up and ride out of town before the boy realised what had happened to him and who had taken his money. Even then, he might be too embarrassed to admit to the sheriff that he'd had a whore on his lap. It might get back to the preacher, after all, who'd only take it the wrong way. 

With a contemptuous snort, she bent down to adjust her stockings. Real prostitutes did that the whole time to flash some ankle or even some calf. Concentrating on making the act seem genuine, she did not notice the man coming up to her until he cleared his throat. Slowly, then, her gaze travelled up his body. Scuffed boots that looked like they'd seen a lot of riding. Faded, dusty Levis tight around legs and cowboy-lean hips. Arms and chest that were slim and muscular, even in a bulky, flannel shirt. And a face that an angel might have damned his soul by envying. Surely, he didn't need to buy a woman? 

She put her most dazzling smile on her face in preparation for her refusal: "Sorry, sugah, the shop's closed for the day." 

"Ya last customer must've been a big spender, chere," he leaned forward until he was almost close enough to kiss. His voice had an exotic, musical lilt to it that told her as plain as daylight that he was from Lousiana, "Pity he didn't know just how much he paid you. Or that he didn't get anyt'ing in return." 

Kate battled to keep her shock from showing on her face. He must have seen her removing the city-slicker's money, but that was impossible. It had taken her seconds to take the bills from his pocket and to palm them. The city-boy himself hadn't known what was happening, so how could this stranger have done so? 

He continued: "Dat isn't de best way to conduct business, chere. Good idea to give de customer value for money. Or to refund him." 

"Ah don't think that's a good idea, sugah," her smile didn't falter for a second, but, behind her back, her hand closed around an empty whisky-bottle. It felt very cool and solid in her hands. Just as he opened his mouth to reply, she swung it directly at his face. His eyes widened in surprise, but his hand came up to catch hers. The force of her blocked blow vibrated through her body, as she felt his fingers tighten around her wrist, like handcuffs. She growled in fury - she would not be caught and taken to lock-up! - and slammed her knee right between his cowboy-lean hips. She heard him gasp sharply in pain, and felt his grip around her wrist loosen. The second that bought her was enough for her to break free and run towards the doorway, screaming: "STOP HIM! DON'T LET HIM GET ME! HE TRIED TA MAKE ME GO WITH HIM WITHOUT PAYING!" 

To her private delight, as he made to follow her, the city-slicker, whose money she had stolen, moved to block his way. His voice was a high treble of disapproval, as he brandished his pocket-handkerchief in his face: "You should be ashamed of herself. She might be a jezebel, but it is not gentlemanly to force any lady against her will. Put up your dukes, sirruh!" 

"Ya don't understand . . . ." the Creole tried to explain, but his words were lost in the shouts of the other men who were gathering about him. All of them sounded very angry and very drunk. Some of them were brandishing bottles and bits of wood that had probably been parts of a chair or a table a few minutes ago. She smirked. They didn't give two, tin bits for a prostitute's honour, but a fight was a fight and they made a point of honour of never missing one. From the sidelines, the other whores hissed and jeered. It would be a long time before he was able to follow her, and that assumed he would still be able to walk or ride after they were finished with him. . . . 

As Kate strolled out of the door, she paused to glance over her shoulder and blow him a mocking kiss. 

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Disclaimer: All the characters belong to Marvel, even though these incarnations belong to me. I'm not making two, tin bits off them. This is easily one of the most unusual X-Men fanfictions I have written, but I have always been fascinated by the gold-rush period of US history and have always thought it would be great fun to write a 'fic set in that period. Huge thanks to everyone who read this for me, but especially to Keri for helping me seem less ignorant about US history. All the gaffes are my own. If you would like to see your favourite character in future parts, review if you're on FF.net or e-mail me, and I'll see what I can do. I still need shopkeepers, singers, doctors, whores, miners, and heaven knows what else. ^.^


	2. Prairie Song

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel. Their 1853 versions are my own idea, however, as are the various tent-towns scattered around California. I'm not making any money off of them - I'm not even getting fool's gold for my efforts! However, if you're enjoying the story, an e-mail or a review on FF.net is ample payment and I'll thank you kindly for them. You can send me e-mail at brucepat@iafrica.com or at hopes_angel2@hotmail.com (if the former is giving problems). MST3K and Pop_Ups are fine - I find them hilarious - but send me a copy or I'll send the lawman after you.  
  
GOLD FEVER  
  
PART 2  
  
The Prairies, California  
  
1853  
  
Stirring the last embers of her cooking-fire with a stick, Kate undid her bedroll and slipped beneath her blankets. Much as she would have liked to travel all night and put as much prairie as possible between her and Fortune, it was not safe to ride after dark. In the endless ocean of swaying grass that was the prairie, it was hard enough to keep to the rabbit-trail that did for a road by day, let alone in the darkness. And, even on the trail, there were countless holes and trenches over which a tired horse might stumble. She did not want to break the animal's leg and have to walk the rest of the way to Moonshine Creek. As the tired, old saw went, an ounce of prevention was always better than a pound of cure.  
  
Even though she regretted the waste of time, she had to admit to herself it was nice to sleep on the open prairie beneath the stars. They glittered against the dark sky, like God had taken a handful of golddust and flung it into space. The moon was a giant, golden nugget beside them. The air was full of the clean, sweet scent of grass. And, when the winds blew across the prairie, it came alive with whispering, rustling music. It had been her lullaby ever since her daddy had left Mississippi to seek his fortune in California. It had never failed to send her to sleep.  
  
Snuggled beneath her blankets, she was half-dozing, when she heard a rustle in the prairie grass behind her. Fear thrilled across her nerves, like a note played on a fiddle. Was it a bandit come to rob her, or to rape her? Was it Fortune's sheriff coming after her to haul her to lock-up? The city boy must have realised he had been robbed by now. If he was smart enough, which she doubted, he might have even worked out who did it. Worse, was it some Indian brave come to scalp her? She had heard there were tribes in California that roamed the prairies looking to take out their anger at the white man.  
  
She forced herself to lie still and breathe evenly. Her daddy had always told her that the element of surprise was the best advantage you could have. If you could take it away from the other person and use it for yourself, you'd be ahead of the other person from the get-go. You'd just have to carry that advantage through to a victory. Beneath her blankets, her grip tightened around the Colt pistol that she always wore at her side. Warmed by her skin, the wood of the handle was solid and reassuring in her hands.  
  
The footsteps stopped a few inches behind her. As quick as a rattlesnake, she twisted in her bedroll and came up pointing her gun at the newcomer. Her eyes widened when she saw it was the same Creole boy who had confronted her at the bar. Of all the people she had expected, he wasn't one of them. She had thought the brawl at the bar would have kept him at the surgeon's tent and out of action for a week at the least. He had been luckier than she was, evidently. Apart from a fresh bruise on one high cheekbone and a small cut over his left eye, he seemed to have walked away from the fight unscathed. Which wasn't to say he was going to walk away from this one at all.  
  
Keeping her pistol trained on him, "Why'd you follow me? You some kind o' bounty hunter or something? Hate ta disappoint you, sugah, but there ain't a price on mah head."  
  
"Dere'd ya'd be wrong, chere," his voice was as calm as the expression on his face, in spite of the weapon being pointed at him, "Midas Gold has offered a cool thousand for de recovery of deir money, an' de apprehension of de person who took it. At de moment, I'm de only one dat knows who she is."  
  
"Then you'll take that secret t'your grave," Kate said evenly, even though her insides had turned liquid at his words. She knew precisely what the gold company meant by 'apprension'. They meant dragging her to the nearest tree, knotting a coarse rope around her neck and hanging her until she was dead. Her finger tightened slightly on the pistol's trigger. Even though death came to everyone eventually, she would be damned if it came to her before her time. She would kill this Creole boy before she allowed him to bring her to justice.  
  
"I don't intend t' haul your derriere back to de sheriff. Man like dat doesn't have de good sense t'appreciate how pretty it is," he had the audacity to smirk, "No, chere, I got another proposition for ya."  
  
"You're on the wrong side of the gun-barrel to be tryin' ta cut that sorta deal with me, sugah," Kate said coldly, "Ah might have dressed like a whore ta rob that boy, but Ah ain't gonna buy yo' silence that way. You'll find Ah repay that sorta debt in hot lead."  
  
"Pity, because I find gold much more interestin'," he replied, "Problem is dat I need a partner t'get my hands on more of it dan even my greedy heart could ever desire. Which is why I came after ya."  
  
"Partner?" she echoed, then said in sudden understanding, "You're a thief too!"  
  
"Correction. I'm a t'ief after a prize of a million dollars," he grinned broadly at her, "Now, before I give de game away, do I have a partner or not?"  
  
Licking her lips nervously, Kate stared up at the man standing in front of her. He seemed sincere, but she had heard many a smooth line delivered by many a handsome face in her time. And none of them had ever kept their promises. She wasn't a pigeon to be plucked so easily. She knew that, if she went with him, he would probably turn her into the nearest lawman and collect the bounty on her head. She would have done the same if she were in his scuffed boots and could make an easy thousand. Still, if there was even a slightest chance of getting her hands on a share of a million dollars, she was prepared to take a greater risk than this one. Her daddy - digging away his life in a mineshaft in the hope of the one, big find that would have made him rich - had not even dreamt of making that much.  
  
She smiled sweetly back at him, "If this is a doublecross, sugah, I'll blow your damn brains out."  
  
"I'll take dat as a yes, chere," he hunkered down beside the burning embers, holding his long, slim hands above it to warm them. The flickering light made shadows dance on his face and threw its planes into sharp, dark relief, giving him the look of a demon prince. She wondered with a shiver whether she would be damned by this deal. "Now, let me tell ya my plan. . . ."  
  
*  
  
I'm sorry. This was a boring, but sorely necessary, part. I've worked and reworked it, and there's no way of making it more interesting. Rest assured that latter parts will be much more fun. ^.^ 


	3. Moonshine and Silver Stars

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Disclaimer: Gambit, Rogue, and the other characters belong to Marvel. (This part contains three cameos, if you're counting. It also contains my profound apologies to Logan fans. ^.^) I don't even get fool's gold for writing this story, which explains why this is being written on a 486. Your comments will be greatly appreciated, of course, at brucepat@iafrica.com or hopes_angel2@hotmail. com or via the review board on FF.net. I'd especially like comments on the style. I am experimenting with what Ted Hughes might call a "superugly, supersimple style" for this story. It's meant to be quite rough, unpolished and colloquial, meant to fit the contents. As for flames, however, they'll just be used to cook up a mess o' beans. ^.^ 

* 

GOLD FEVER

PART 3

MOONSHINE AND SILVER STARS

*

Moonshine Creek, California

1853

*

After the tent-towns I've been spending the last few months in, Moonshine Creek seems almost like a proper city. It ain't anything like my New Orleans, of course, but it has proper houses, a city hall, a jail, even a bank. It was built when there was still gold in these hills, when the first dreamers came from all over America to make their fortunes. Officially, accordin' to its mayor, sheriff and preacher, it was named for the way the moonlight shone off the waters. Everybody else knows better than that, because it ain't creek water they drink in these parts! 

Personally, I think the name is appropriate for a whole, 'nother reason. _When I was a kid, my tante told me a story about a boy who fell in love with the moon. By day, he dreamt about it. At night, he stared it. In the end, he just wasted away to nothing. Became an echo or the will o' the wisp or something. I can't remember. With that kind of bedtime story, I guess it ain't a surprise I'm so screwed up. That's not why I'm telling it, though. Around here, there be a lot of people who have fallen in love with something a hell of a lot less real than moonshine. The idea of gold. Finding the big nugget and striking it rich. Being able to retire from the dust and the heat and the sweat of the mines. And they sure as shit don't care that it'll end up destroying them._

Personally, I'd choose the gallows' tree over the mines any day. It's quick and clean at least, unlike the slow death of prospecting. The mine dust gets into you and chokes you from the inside. Take my word for it. I see men in the street every day, who died years ago. It's enough to make me believe in zombies. Sure, they might breathe and eat and walk and drink and whore, but they're already dead. You can see it in their eyes. There isn't anything inside them except dust. 

A long time ago, I made a promise to myself that, if I ever looked in the mirror and saw that dead look on my face, I'd take a pistol and shoot myself. It wouldn't make a difference, because I'd have been long dead already. And there wouldn't be nothing that could bring me back to life. When mine dust gets into your soul, not even all the water in the Mississippi can wash it out. 

It's ironic - I guess it's a lot like gold dust in that respect. . . .

*

"Ah still can't believe they're holdin' a million dollar poker tournament in this one cow town," Kate said, turning away from the hotel window out of which she had been looking and coming to perch on the desk at which Remy - if that was indeed his name - was idly shuffling a deck of cards. He had affected the look of a gentleman gambler, changing flannel shirt and cowboy-tight jeans for a crisp suit with the obligatory bow-tie and wide-brimmed hat. And she did not doubt that his native Creole would become a Southern drawl at the right time. She already knew he was a gambler, but he could have also passed for a gentleman, if she had not know better. 

She shifted uncomfortably in her own costume - another prostitute's dress. It was different to the one she had worn in Fortune - this one was cut out of deep, black silk, and had pink rosebuds embroidered on its bodice - but no less uncomfortable for it. She had not chosen it for its comfort, however. She had learnt long ago that whores were invisible in all the ways that mattered. Decent men looked straight through you, or fixed their eyes on a point just above your head, as if they would commit a sin simply by seeing you. As for scoundrels, few of them were interested in anything above your neck, which excluded anything that could identify you to the sheriff. 

"Gamblers know where to come, cherie. Dat's all dat matters," Remy replied, looking up from his cards, "Besides, if dey held it in de big city, every crook would be dere within minutes to try deir luck. Dey figure it's safer in dese small towns," he paused in his shuffling to wiggle his fingers suggestively, "Or so dey think."

Kate arched an eyebrow, tilting her head at the blur of cards between his hands, "If you're such a hotshot cardsharp, why the hell do you need to steal the money?" 

"If I had any pride, I would say it is because I'd rather be safe dan sorry," he replied with an ironic grin, "As I don't, it's because I ain't a hotshot cardsharp. I can shuffle, oui, but I only won five games in my life, and dose were lucky breaks." 

Almost happy with his explanation, she strolled back to the window. Moonshine Creek might have been a sight to make eyes sore, but she wanted to check no sheriff was riding up to the hotel to arrest her. She still couldn't believe that the young man wasn't going to turn her over and claim the reward Midas had posted on her head. His talk about needing a partner seemed plausible enough, especially given the kind of caper he intended to pull, and he had no real reason to continue with his charade now that they were in a town with a jail, but she was still suspicious of him. She could not see how anyone could pass over a thousand dollars that could be gotten as easy as walking into a sheriff's office and saying that you knew who pulled off a heist. As yet, there was no lawman in sight, but that did not mean one might be coming and she did not want to be stuck in a hotel room when he did. 

"Do you want to go downstairs and check out the competition, sugar?" she suggested lightly.

"Sure," Remy shrugged, folding up his cards and slipping them into his pocket, "It can't hurt to be prepared. . . ." 

*

Tying his horse's reins snugly to the hitch, Sheriff Logan - whom everyone knew better as the Wolverine - stumped up the steps that led into the hotel. He was a short, ugly man with a temper to match, as the thick, livid scar slashed across the bridge of his nose seemed to testify. He had got it bringing a serial killer by the name of Creed to justice, and was as proud of it as he was of the dented, tarnished star on his barrel chest. He had never let an outlaw get away from him, there had never been a crime committed on his watch, and he had no intention of losing that reputation in a town like Moonshine Creek.

Tilting his hat to the woman behind the counter, he made his way directly to the adjoining saloon. Riding was thirsty work, and a man needed a beer to wash the dust from his throat. Besides, the banker had asked to meet him in the bar in order to make arrangements for the big tournament that began the next day. Logan grunted in disgust. The only arrangement he intended to make was to keep the money close and his six-shooters closer. It was the safest way of protecting cash he knew, and he didn't intend to change it for some paperpusher. 

Unsurprisingly, given the noonday heat, the saloon was packed. Dusty miners, self-styled gentlemen in their pale suits, painted whores, cowboys greasy with cattle, all clustered around small tables and a long bar. The room smelt of sweat and stale perfume, and was swelteringly hot from all the bodies crammed into it. In the corner, a player piano tinkled out a jaunty tune. The man in front of it had given up all pretense of playing it, and was gawping openly at the show on stage. Logan couldn't blame him. On the platform, high-stepping hookers were sashaying and kicking their legs up into the air. Only a few feathers and a scrap or two of silk preserved their modesty. He licked his dry lips. If he was lucky, he might be able to persuade one to join him for the night. But, as he had always said, business came before pleasure. 

Scanning the room, his eyes rested on a table in the corner. A young, somewhat fussy-looking man was sitting there and fastidiously sipping beer from a tankard. His face was flushed as he stared at the dancing girls, as if that was as close to a woman as he had gotten. He had dirty-blond hair that flopped down onto his forehead, and his brown eyes were framed by a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a pale, grey suit and red tie, both of which showed all the signs of hard wear. Logan snorted contemptuously. That had to be the banker whom he had agreed to meet. 

He pulled his hat down snugly on his forehead, and made his way towards the table. Just as he was about to reach the other man, however, a woman crashed into him. Anger surged hot and acid in his stomach as he looked at her. By her whole appearance, she was one of the immigrants from the East. It was getting so that you couldn't walk down the streets without seeing one or more of them. They came to America in search of a better life, and ended up being swindled at the docks. Odds were that this one had been robbed of anything and everything except the robe on her back. Even grimy and stained, it looked like it had been expensive. It was coloured like an opal, shades of green and blue and silver mixing together in the cloth. 

"Sorry, sorry," she fluttered, straightening his shirt with neat, bird-like gestures. He knocked her hands away and tightened his own around her arms, fingers pressing hard into her skin. Baring his teeth in a snarl, he leaned his face into hers. Her slanted eyes were wide, and her mouth was a 'o' of fright. It reminded him of Mariko, of her horrified expression as he had pushed open the door and found her with . . . . He shoved the woman away with a low, disgusted growl, noticing without remorse the leopard-bruises on her arms where his fingers had pressed. She ran weeping towards the doorway. 

Ruthlessly forcing down his emotions, he extended a hand to the man at the table, "Robert Drake of the First Bank of Moonshine Creek, right?"

"That was unnecessary," the banker accused him, as Logan sat down across him, "It was just an accident and she was just a woman."

Taking a pull of his beer, he wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand before he spoke, "An' that's why ya chose me, bub, insteada one of those pansy sheriffs who play nice. Because ya know I'll do whatever it takes ta look after ya money." 

*

"Trouble at four o'clock," Remy murmured, brushing his lips against Kate's ear before moving down to kiss her neck. Her skin was soft and warm beneath his mouth, and she smelt faintly of the clean, sweet prairie-grass in which they had slept the previous night. There were worse ways of passing on a message, he reflected, as he planted a final kiss on the curve of her throat for effect. It might have been the two straight bourbons he had had against his better judgment, but Kate had turned out to be a surprisingly attractive woman.

It looked as if the saint of thieves had been watching over him when he had gone to Fortune that day. He had just wanted a hot meal and a cold beer, but he had ended up finding a partner whose sense of style and flair was equal to his. Getting the same guy, whom she had just robbed, to save her had been a masterstroke. He couldn't have set up something more beautiful himself. After that, he had known he had wanted to work with her.

If part of that work meant having her sit on his lap and whisper sweet nothings into his ear, he could accept that too. It might have been one of the hardships of the job, he thought wryly, but he would somehow endure it if it made their disguises look good. 

"Trouble?" she whispered, frowning slightly and twisting to look in the direction he had indicated. He winced. Under normal circumstances, his response would have been entirely different and a great deal more complimentary, but he still was tender in certain, personal places from her attack on him the other day. The woman wielded a mean knee. 

Her green eyes were wide with shock, as she turned back to face him. 

"It can't be. He's still in Texas."

"Dat's what I thought, but dere be no doubt about it. De Wolverine is here." 

"Shit" was Kate's eloquent reply. 

*


	4. Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

_Disclaimer: All the characters belong to Marvel, so I am not making a profit from this story. Guess I'm going to have to rely on prospecting to make my fortune. Feedback would be even better than a whole bucket of gold nuggets, so send it along to brucepat@iafrica.com  or put them up on the review board at FF.net___

_Grateful thanks to Keri Wilson for all her help with this one. Her knowledge of American history is second-to-none. If this story is at all accurate, it is due to her time and effort. _

_*_

GOLD FEVER

NON, JE NE REGRETTE RIEN

PART 4

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_Moonshine Creek, California_

_1853_

_*_

"What are we going to do about the Wolverine?" Kate demanded, as she shut the hotel room's door behind herself and Remy. Her partner shrugged and collapsed onto the bed, folding his hands on his stomach. So as not to rouse suspicion, they had remained in the saloon, spooning and making small-talk, for about an hour after they had first spotted him. She had been in a seethe of impatience and indecision the entire time. 

One part of her wanted to call off the heist and get as far from Moonshine Creek and the poker tournament as she possibly could. The Wolverine had earned every word spoken about him in admiration or fear. It was said he was as tough as a bear, as wily as a coyote and as nasty as a rattlesnake. If the rumours could be believed, he'd tracked Creed all the way from Nebraska to California, and had killed him with his bare hands. Down in the saloon, she'd had the worst feeling that if he looked at her he would know her in an instant as the person who'd robbed that pigeon from Midas.

The other could almost feel the cool, smooth notes slipping through her hands. A million dollars was almost more money than she could imagine - enough money to buy the entire prairies with some left over for change. The thought of having half of it it for herself was enough to make even the most cautious thief risk the gallows. Besides, she had taken a gamble going with Remy to Moonshine Creek -  he could have been a clever bounty hunter for all she had known at the time - and that had paid off for her. It would be wrong to stop the dice rolling while she was on a winning streak. 

"Ah think we go ahead with the pinch," she continued, sitting next to him on the bed and looking down at him. Remy had loosened his bowtie and unbuttoned his jacket, while his hat was tilted at a rakish angle over the bedpost. He had evidently decided that rumpled clothes would add to the effect of a dissolute gentleman gambler, and had settled in for the night. She irrelevantly wondered where he expected her to sleep. 

He arched an eloquent eyebrow at her, "Bien sur. If only because outsmartin' de Wolverine would make a great drinkin' story." 

"You got a plan, sugah?" 

"Oui," he replied complacently, "I had one de entire time, because I knew de bank would hire protection for deir money. I didn' t'ink it would be de Wolverine, but dat'll just add t'de challenge o' pulling it off." 

"So, spill the beans," she demanded, "What are we goin' to do at the tournament tomorrow?" 

Shifting up the feather mattress so that he was sitting against the headboard, Remy reached into his breast pocket and produced a small twist of white paper in reply. He held it out to Kate, who took it from him and looked at him questioningly. He gestured that she should look inside it. Careful not to spill any of its contents, Kate untwisted the little package to reveal finely ground, grey powder. It gave off a sharp, pungent fragrance, yet the scent made her feel oddly dizzy and light-headed. Remy's face began to blur in front of her, his features becoming indistinct and smudgy, as if she were looking at him through a greasy glass. Behind him, the wooden panelling of the walls were melting and running down onto the floor. Even the dim, gas lanterns were liquid cascades of light that poured down to puddle on the bedspread. It was like the whole world was dissolving, and she was the only solid point still remaining in it. 

Quickly, she twisted the packet shut and handed it back to him. He tucked it back into his jacket with a satisfied expression on his face. 

"I t'ink dat'd be enough to confuse even de Wolverine, ne?" 

"More than enough," she agreed, getting unsteadily to her feet and teetering to the casement window. She pushed one of them open, and breathed in the warm, night air to clear her head. She made a face as she did so. Unlike the sweet, grassy prairies, Moonshine Creek smelt of dust, creosote and horse manure. By day, sweat would have added its own stink to the mix, but the streets were pretty much deserted at night. If the soft, rainbow glow of lanterns through muslin curtains were any indication, all decent folks were at home by this time. The less respectable inhabitants would all be spending whatever money they had managed to make by mining or driving cattle on the moonshine that had given this place its name. Rising from the saloon beneath them, she could hear the faint tinkling of the player piano over which the high, drunken laughter of the whores or a muffled curse from one of the patrons could be heard from time to time. 

"So, what are you goin' to do wit' your share of de money?" Remy suddenly asked from beside her. Kate started, turning to glare at him accusingly. She had been so deep in her contemplation of the city that she had not heard him come up to her. He was leaning on the windowsill, tieless and jacketless, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had a thoughtful, slightly dreamy expression on his face. With the lantern light behind him, he looked like the picture of the angel that the schoolmarm had shown her in the big Bible from which they had used to read. 

She remembered she had been in love with that angel as a girl. She had been forever stealing glances at him when she had been allowed to get her hands on the book. When her teacher had found out, she had been furious with her. She had not know it was wrong to be in love with an angel, but it evidently was, because the schoolmarm had called her a little heathen, a child of the Devil and much worse. Kate had never returned to that school again. She had set out in that direction each morning to fool her daddy, but had spent the rest of the day playing down at the creek or in the sweet, prairie grass. She had never regretted it. She knew how to read and write, and that was a lot more than most people in the West ever did. 

It was strange how the old memory had resurfaced, though. She thought she had left behind her childhood: the dirt of the tents; the too-short, too-tight dresses and the final hopelessness on her father's dead face. She barely thought about her past anymore, not with that sort of clarity. It was almost as strange as the deep, almost painful sweetness she felt in the pit of her stomach when she looked across at Remy. That had to be the bourbon she had drunk at the saloon disagreeing with her, or an aftereffect of whatever drug had been in the packet. The alternative was impossible. She had only met him the previous morning. 

Disconcerted, she stared back out of the window, "Ah'd get the hell out of here. Go back East, and start a new life in Mississippi. Somewhere where a city ain't a couple of tents and a hitching-rail; where there are shops and shows and proper streets. What about you?" 

He chuckled, "I don't need de money, chere. I'm already rich a couple times over, but I got gold dust in my blood and I can't get it out. You be de same. If ya went back to Mississippi and tried to lead a normal life, you'd be itching for another big score in a week." 

"That ain't true," she protested, "Sure, Ah'm a thief and Ah'm ain't ashamed that Ah'm damn good at what Ah do, but it ain't what Ah want to do forever."

"Really?" his voice was amused, "Why do you still do it den? Way I see it, if you're half as good a t'ief as you say you are, you've pinched more money dan most folks in dese parts will see in deir lifetimes." 

Kate was silent, staring past the lights of the city to the dark prairie that stretched off into the distance. Remy was right. She had already stolen more than enough money on which to retire, move back East and start a new life. It was the question of what came next that had always stopped her from considering it and had made her decide to get more money before acting. If she gave up her life of crime, what would take its place? Wifehood and motherhood were the professions to which it was assumed all decent, natural women aspired, and she could not see herself settling down to marriage and babies. 

And, if she remained single, the days would stretch ahead of her in grey, unending uselessness. She was not educated enough to teach, and that would be the only job open to her, other than the unacceptable options of mining, running a boarding house and prostitution. Unlike men, women could not become preachers or accountants, cowgirls or doctors, shop-owners or workers.

Doubting Remy would understand, she said at last, "Because Ah'm good at it, and because there ain't anything else Ah'm allowed to be good at." 

She felt his hand move to cover hers on the windowsill and squeeze it tight, before he said in a surprisingly angry voice, "Den stick it to dem an' be damn good at it." 

"What do you know about it? You're a man," she said in surprise, "You can be anything you want." 

"You forgot de adjective dat makes all de difference," he said quietly, "I'm a _Cajun man. One, small step up from a negro, according to de powers dat be. Fit only t'work in de fields or de turpentine factories." _

Kate stared at their hands on the windowsill, unable to look up at him. She felt sick with shame and guilt. She had assumed he was Creole for the same, ugly reasons implied in his words. Sure, she would have liked to believe it was a natural consequence of there being more Creoles than Cajuns up in Mississippi, but she knew she would have been fooling herself. Received wisdom had it that Cajuns didn't have the brains that God gave geese, and, in the short time she had known him, Remy had proved himself to be highly intelligent. She had gone with an ugly stereotype, and had leapt to even uglier conclusions. She didn't know where to begin to apologise to him. 

She turned towards him, but he must have guessed her purpose from her face, because, before she could speak, he smiled down at her and teasingly  said: "It's okay, chere. Ya wouldn't be de first t'make dat mistake. First time I saw you, before ya ripped off dat pigeon from Midas, I t'ought you were a whore for real. Was even wondering how much ya charged, an' t'inking it didn't matter." 

"And Ah remember asking myself why the hell someone who looked like you needed to pay for a woman," she replied with an arch smile of her own, glad and grateful that the awkward moment had passed so easily. 

Remy let out a shout of laughter, "Don't blame ya. I am pretty good-looking." 

"In which case, you can have the floor tonight," she said in her sweetest voice, turning away from the window and walking towards the bed. She sat on the edge of it and bent to unlace her high-heeled boots, "After all, _Ah need my beauty sleep." _

Still chuckling in amusement, he retrieved a blanket and pillow from the bed and spread them on the hardwood floor. He settled onto them with a theatrical groan, thumping the ground with a hand as if that would make it more comfortable, "Don't suppose I can take it back about me bein' handsome." 

Pointedly, "Nope. Good night, Remy."

"Good night, chere. Sweet dreams." 


	5. Dreamers and Schemers

_The characters are Marvel's, and I'm not making a cent from this story, so don't send the sheriff to haul me to lock-up! _

_I do realise this is a slightly short chapter, but I needed to do some set-up and I also won't have much time for the next few weeks with exams, so wanted to get the next chapter of this posted in some form. Anyone who has a problem with that . . . pistols at dawn. Kidding. ^.~ _

_Thanks to Keri, good friend and general historical buff, for all her invaluable input into this piece. Seriously, she knows everything from buttons to money to Native American history to luggage  and, if this story is at all historically accurate, it is all her doing. _

_***_

**GOLD FEVER**

**PART 5**

**'DREAMERS AND SCHEMERS'**

_***_

_I've only been in love once in my life, though I've been in lust plenty more times than that. _

_Her name was Belladonna Boudreaux and her parents must have known how she'd turn out when they chose that name for her. Let me paint you a picture: blonde hair, blue eyes, skin the colour of refined gold and a figure that was just made for tight dresses. The creme de la creme of New Orleans' high society, she had never worked  a day in her life, nor needed to do so, unless you counted the parties she threw. And what parties she threw! They were enough to keep New Orleans supplied with gossip and scandal for weeks. And with all of this - beauty, money, charm - she wanted to marry me._

_It would have ruined her. I was the bete noir of a family whose name was pretty black in the first place. We were thieves, to put it bluntly, and everyone knew that the family fortune came from other people's fortunes. Our marriage would have ruined Belle's reputation without a doubt. It was already being tarnished by the fact that I was on her arm at every soiree. So, while she was sleeping one night, I climbed out of her bed, walked to the window and never came back. Lord knew I loved her, far too much to destroy her. _

_I haven't thought about that night in years, but watching Kate sleep brings it all back to me. She is curled up under the sheets with one  hand beneath her cheek. Her hair with its lucky silver penny streak lies loose of the pillow, and her mouth is curved in a little smile like a child having a happy dream.  _

_And I start to wonder, if I shouldn't change that count to two . . . ._

_***_

"Button me up?" Kate asked Remy, as came to stand in front of him and turned her back to him. She was wearing another of her whore's dresses - this one was jade-green with black lace trimmings and little jet buttons. He nodded his co-operation, and dutifully began to do up her outfit. It was a pity, he thought absently - her skin was very soft and warm beneath his fingers, and smelt sweetly of prairie grass. Under different circumstances, he wouldn't have minded taking off her clothes instead of putting them on her. At last, he did up the final button at her neck and stepped back to admire his handiwork. 

"You're beautiful, chere," he said honestly.

"You're pretty beautiful yourself," she laughed, giving his crisp, white suit and silk cravat an approving look, then sobered, "But do you think we'll pull this off today, sugah? Honestly?"

He saw her doubtful expression and wished he could give her a confident answer that was also an honest one. He had expected this pinch to be hard, and he had not factored Sheriff Logan's guarding the money into that estimation. The Wolverine's presence just complicated everything, made the pinch a thousand times more difficult. If they did everything perfectly, they would pull it off, but a single mistake would have both of them dangling from a tree. For the sake of a million dollars, however, he was prepared to take the risk, gamble on his skills and Kate's. Remy LeBeau might have been no card-sharp, but he was gambler to his bones and the size of the pot always compensated for the lousy odds. 

"Oui," he grinned at her, feeling as low and sneaky as a snake, "We will. An' now it's time t'roll de dice." 

***

Chewing thoughtfully on a plug of tobacco, Sheriff Logan surveyed his surroundings from beneath the brim of his ten-gallon hat. The hotel's saloon was packed with the sort of 'gentleman' gamblers he despised: rich boys with too much time and too many of their daddy's dollars. Almost identical in their crisp suits and their moneyed drawls, they were seated around the tables in little groups, with cards in their hands and piles of polished chips resting in front of them. Brightly-dressed whores flittered between them like bees after honey, dividing winners and losers with a practised eye before deciding on whom to rest their affections. He spat derisively onto the floor next to him. 

Despite the size of the pot, this was exactly like every poker tournament at which he had been: hot, noisy and boring. He could tell that there would probably be no trouble here, even if the organisers had warned him that every outlaw and lowlife in the West would try their luck at more than the game. Oh, he might have to throw out a drunken gambler who got too insistent that he had been cheated, or arrest a whore who got a little free with helping herself to a fee for her services, but nothing more than that. 

He was almost disappointed. 

The Wolverine was a man who lived for a challenge, and no one had come close to giving him one since he had tracked the serial killer Creed across four states and arrested him in a mining-town in California. He had had the wiles of a coyote, and the brute violence of an angry grizzly. The sheriff had almost been sorry to hang him: he knew he wouldn't soon find another adversary who tested him to his limits and beyond. It seemed he had been right, if even a million dollars couldn't stir the local lowlifes into action.

He settled back into his chair with a grunt, folding his arms across his chest.  As much as he hated to admit it, it looked like the organisers had been right about there not being much danger to having the money in the room. He knew it was standard practice at these tournaments – gamblers liked to have their eyes on the prize – but he would have been happier if the money had been locked up safely in a vault. It wasn't that he didn't trust the protection he provided. Logan had full confidence that he could have kept the money safe in a crowd of thieves, but there was no harm in being doubly safe. The city-slicker banker had agreed, but had said the choice was out of his hands. The organisers insisted on the money being prominently displayed, which was why Logan was currently sitting behind a table that a million dollars in cold, hard cash laid out on it in a leather valise. 

A woman's high laugh suddenly rang out in the room, as clear as chimes. His eyes found her in the crowd and saw it was the little whore who had bumped into him the other day. She was dressed in the same shimmering, once expensive robes, and her black hair fell down her back like an ink-stroke. Looking at her, he could almost see the other woman he had known so many years ago lying next to him in bed like a bronze carving, her slanted eyes half-closed, her belly rising and falling as she breathed. A low growl formed itself in the back of his throat. This was no time to be picking over past wounds – he had a job to do, and would up the proverbial creek if he failed to do it.  

Still, his eyes tracked her as she slipped her arms around one of the gambler's necks and whispered something in his ear. The man laughed, showing even, white teeth in his red beard. And Logan thought again just how much he hated poker tournaments and the sort of men they attracted. 

***

Trailing her fingers absently over the muscles of Remy's shoulder and feeling them tense in response, Kate looked at the Wolverine as he sat at a table on the saloon's stage. He was as she had imagined him – a short, stocky man with scars on his face that spoke of a lifetime of tangling with criminals. One, a livid slash across his nose, puckered the skin of his forehead and gave him the look of being permanently angry. A leather valise containing the money rested on the dark wood in front of him, closed and locked. This was going to be harder than she had imagined. 

For a start, there was no way she was going to be able to slip him the drug directly without arousing his suspicion. If she went up to the stage and he started acting strangely moments later, everyone would know it had been her doing and their plan would be laid open like a hung-drawn-and-quartered corpse. Then, there was the challenge of getting the money away without anyone in the room seeing – that was a practical impossibility, considering the hungry looks the gamblers were shooting it every few seconds. Not for the first time since her new partner had proposed it to her, she wondered if she and Remy would be better calling off the whole scheme. A million dollars weren't any use to someone shut up in jail or hanging from the gallows tree.

As Remy took another card from the dealer with a smile and slipped it into his hand, she wrapped her arms around his neck and nipped his earlobe, murmuring, "Ah say we call this off, sugar."

Turning to bury his head in her neck, he muttered, "We'll pull this off, chere. Trust me. Just get Logan de drug, and I'll make sure dere's enough of a diversion for you to be able to get away wit' de money without anyone being suspicious." 

"You're not the one takin' the risk," she whispered reproachfully, as she broke away from him and gave the rest of the table a dazzling smile. The other gamblers returned it with grins and nods of their own, evidently unsuspicious of the contents of the conversation that had just passed between them. They had no reason to be – kissing and canoodling the entertainment were as much a part of the tournaments as playing cards was,  "But we'll play this your way."

She looked around herself, trying to find a way of getting the drug to Logan that would not arouse anyone's curiosity. For that to work, she could not be seen anywhere near him or the stage. That meant, she had to get another person to give it to him, without that person being aware of what they were doing. It was a tricky challenge, but no trickier than some of the other pinches she had managed to pull off in the past. She had once taken the ring of a married man's finger without him missing it until she was long gone. Of course, once she was, she guessed he had been too ashamed to take out a bounty on her head. It would have meant explaining to his wife exactly why he had been playing around with a whore in the first place when he should have been minding their store.

Her eyes settled on one of the barmaids, carrying pitchers of beer on a tray and walking between the tables. From time to time, they paused to hand them out to the gamblers who asked for them, and to tuck the money they received in exchange into the top of their corsets. Her lips pursed thoughtfully, as she watched them. If she played it just right, one of those beers could yet be worth a million dollars to her. . . .

***

_Y'all review now, hear?_


	6. Making a Living

Reupload because FF.net screwed up the formatting. Nothing new, but actually legible. :P

***

All of the people in this story, bar a couple of random gamblers, belong to Marvel. If they send their lawmen in my direction, they better be warned . . . I'm a crack-shot. (Okay, I'm a crack-shot with a water pistol, but I can wreck their Armani suits! Hah!) 

Previous parts are up on FF.net or on my webpage at http://www.geocities.com/textualchemy

To answer a review, yes, this is based partially on Maverick. It's one of my favourite movies ever - I must have seen it a hundred times, and it always reminds me of Gambit and Rogue every time I watch it. 

And, believe it or not, this chapter actually gets to the point. Wow.

***

GOLD FEVER

MAKING A LIVING

PART 6

*

Moonshine Creek, California

1853

*

As yet another half-drunken gambler squeezed her behind when she passed him, Jean Grey almost gave into her urge to bring a beer bottle down on his head. It would have been so satisying to smash in his stupid, leering face; to watch his look of dumb, animal lust turn to one of shock. As it was, she settled for slapping away his hand viciously. He yelped in outrage and glared at her, but did not take it any further. It was a good decision, she thought, for his own sake. In her current mood, she was liable to whip out the pistol she kept for protection and shoot him on the spot. 

Unlike the painted and perfumed tarts all around her, she didn't spread her legs at any price. She served drinks, wiped tables, swept floors, even sang on occasion, but she did not entertain the customers in the bedroom. She'd starve on the streets before she'd sell her body to buy bread. She had been very clear about that to her boss when she had signed up for the job. Sure, it meant she got to take home less pay at the end of the month, but it also meant she could look her husband straight in the eye and that was worth more than a few, measly dollars to her. 

She had just set a beer down at another table and evaded another groping hand, when one of the whores came up to her. She was a tall, slim woman in a green-and-black dress that looked like it had been painted on her. Chestnut curls tumbled down her shoulders, but there was a freak, white streak in the hair above her forehead. She had noticed her earlier that morning because of it - she had been kissing and canoodling with a young, gentleman gambler whose accent suggested he was from Georgia.

Jean frowned at her in a mixture of confusion and her usual disapproval. There was something wrong about this one that she couldn't quite place. She just seemed to have too much life in her green eyes, too much pride in the way she carried herself. She was new to the oldest profession or she wasn't a whore at all. Either way, it wasn't any of her business.

"Sugah, may Ah have a word with you?" she said, her voice sweeter and smoother than any honey, as she put a hand on Jean's arm, "Guy up on the stage is lookin' a bit parched. Shouldn't you be givin' him one of those whiskeys or something?" 

Angrily, Jean shook herself free from the woman's grip, "Why is that any of your business?" 

The woman gave her a luxurious smile, "But it is mah business. Ah took care of him last night, and he said he'd pay me double if Ah made sure y'all at this saloon took good care of him as well. Ah'm happy to split the profits with you." 

Lifting her skirts, she pulled a thick wad of bills from one of her shiny, lace-up boots. Jean battled to keep her bitterness from showing when she looked at them - she could work all day every day for the next year and she wouldn't make even a tenth of what the other woman made on her back in one night. The whore peeled off a couple of them and held them out to her. 

"I won't take anything from a whore," she replied with stiff pride, "You might not care how you make your money, but I do." 

She laughed, "Take it, sugah. All Ah'm asking you to do is take a drink to the Wolverine. That is your job, ain't it?"

"But . . . ." 

"Besides, the money will be useful with that baby on its way." 

Startled, Jean stared at her. She was not even in her third month - a week or two ago, the baby hadn't been much more than a suspicion. She had looked at herself in the mirror this morning, and she knew she wasn't showing, "How could you tell?" 

"Just could," she waved the bills enticingly in front of her face, "So, take them. A baby deserves decent things."

"Okay," Jean took them with reluctance and tucked them beneath the waistband of her skirt, "But I'm only doing this because it is my job."

"Wouldn't ask you to do anything that wasn't, sugah." 

*

Rolling her eyes, Kate turned away from the barlady and walked back to rejoin Remy. Of all the weird places to run into a high-and-mighty, pure-and-holy woman like that one! She would have expected her to be holding prayer-meetings at the church or keeping her husband's house spotless, not serving drinks to a bunch of drunks in a saloon. It was a good thing that she had spotted the way her hand had kept going to her stomach, as if to protect the child from the noise and the dirt and the obscenity that surrounded it. Maternal instinct was the easiest emotion on which to play. 

Still, she had managed to slip the drug into all the glasses on her tray. The way she saw it, it didn't matter if a few gamblers keeled over a few drinks before schedule. She surpressed a smug smile, as she thought back to how easy it had all been. It had been child's play to distract her with the bills, while she had laced them. She had fetched the packet from her boot at the same time, slit it open with one nail and sprinkled it into the liquid when she hadn't been looking. It had dissolved colourlessly and almost odourlessly in a matter of moments, just as she had hoped. The stupid barlady hadn't suspected anything - she'd just pocketed her money and taken the drinks to the Wolverine. 

She looked across at the stage, not bothering to hide her interest. There wasn't a single person in the room who wasn't casting greedy looks at the pot every few minutes. Jean was holding out the tray to the Wolverine, and he was reaching for a beer with a nod of thanks. He took a long swallow of it, before wiping his mouth dry. This time, Kate couldn't hide her grin of delight. 

Wrapping her arms around Remy's neck, she nipped him on the earlobe and murmured, "Time for that distraction, sugah." 

"You're distractin' enough for any man, cherie," he whispered back to her, nuzzling into her neck, "But stand back an' prepare to be amazed. . . ."

Bemused, Kate did as he asked. 

*

His best look of fury coming to his face, Remy leapt to his feet and pounded the table with both fists. The glasses on it trembled and toppled, liquid within them spreading out to darken the wood. Brightly painted chips flew out in all directions, bounced and skittered over the scuffed floor. In an instant, the saloon went silent. Every face in the room turned in his direction. Remy took a deep breath to steady himself, reminding himself that he lived for moments like these and damn well didn't want to die because of them. 

"The man sitting opposite me is a liar, a fraud and a cheat," his voice trembled with well-bred outrage. Remy was particularly proud of his Georgian gentleman's accent. He'd lied and cheated his way through Atlanta on the strength of it, not to mention talked his way into the boudoir of more than one high-society belle. 

An angry murmur began to rise throughout the room. After a raw amateur with luck on his side, there was nothing gamblers hated more than a cheater. The man Remy had accused got to his own feet, fists balling at his side and an outraged expression on his face. He was a tall, lanky coyote of a man with sandy hair and pale, almost colourless eyes. He had not spoken many words since he had sat at the table with them, and those had been in the soft, measured tones of a man who thought he was saying too much. 

"I ain't a cheat!" he spat, "An' you can't prove that I am!" 

"Really, sir?" 

Dramatically, Remy pushed over the table to reveal cards stashed between the frame and the top of the table. He pulled them out of the hiding-place where he had put them earlier and threw them at the man's feet with the air of challenging him to a duel, "How do you explain those?"

All the colour drained from the man's lean face, "I didn't put 'em there. I didn't . . . ." 

By now, all the other gamblers had left their seats and were closing on him. Some shouted accusations and threats. Others made their point more effectively by slapping whiskey bottles against their palms. Still others tried to calm the mob and were shoved aside for their troubles. Within seconds, the poker tournament had disintegrated into an all-out brawl. Bottles and glasses flew through the air to smash against walls or heads; furniture splintered as men grabbed it to use as weapons; bodies slammed into the bar or the stage; whores screamed encouragement and got in a few kicks of their own. 

In the chaos and noise that surrounded him, Remy looked for Kate and winked at her. 

*

Once in his travels, the Wolverine had been forced to outride a twister. He had been riding through farmland on a strange spring's day when one had suddenly come up behind him. All morning, the sky above him had been a strange, livid colour halfway between yellow and green, and even the air felt oppressive as if it were pressing down on him. Suddenly, however, dark clouds had turned day to night and strong winds had flattened the corn almost to the ground. He'd looked over his shoulder to see a twister rising in the distance, bringing chaos with it. Crops flew upwards along with the soil in which they had been rooted. Barns disintegrated into boards and spiralled in the air. Tools and farming implement did a crazy dance in the sky. He had ridden his horse to collapse for two hours to get to a nearby farm-house and had beaten his knuckles bloody on the door to the cellar before the farmer had opened it for him and he had divided inside it. Bruised, breathing heavily, he had lain on the cool earth of that cellar's floor while chaos had swirled around and over him. He felt exactly the same way now - as if he was the only solid, stable point in a world that was being ripped up around him by a twister. 

Beneath him, on the floor of saloon, he heard some sort of fight begin. There was the buzz of angry voices, then the unmistakable crash of a table being overturned. Moments later, the brawl began for real, as he heard bottles and wood smashing and men yelping in pain. However, when he tried to see what was happening, all he could make out was a blur of colours that seemed to twist and swirl in front of his eyes. 

_The drink_, he thought with a groan, _Someone slipped some sorta drug into it. How could I have been such a damn, tenderfoot fool? I'm the Wolverine, dammit! _

Clutching onto the table to steady himself, he tried to get to his feet, but his muscles wouldn't obey him. Like a newborn calf, his legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed back into his chair.

_The money. I gotta protect their money. _

He reached out a trembling hand to the brown smudge that he guess was the valise, but it dissolved in front of his eyes and reformed somewhere else on the table. He grabbed for it again and again, but his fingers only closed around thin air. 

_Goddamnit! _

Sudden green and black appeared on the edges of his field of vision, and a husky, woodsmoke voice murmured, "Looks like we outsmarted you, you old bastard. Ah'll be taking the money now." 

Her black-gloved hands, wavering like the wings of a blackbird, closed around the elusive valise and lifted it off the table. Anger at his helplessness rising hot within him, Logan fumbled for his pistols at his side, but he could not find them anymore than he had been able to take a hold of the valise. He tried to yell for someone to stop her, but knew his voice was inaudible over the sounds of the bar-fight. 

"I'll get you, bitch," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "I tracked Creed all the way from Nebraska to California. Wherever you go, I'll find you. There ain't nowhere safe from the Wolverine." 

"Creed was an amateur. You're dealin' with a professional now," she replied, "Bye bye, sugah." 

Then, she was gone and the money was gone with her. 

As he sat back in his chair, a slow smile spread across the Wolverine's face. It had been so long since he had a challenge. . . . 

*

TO BE CONTINUED

* 


	7. Chasing the Moon

_Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel. I'm not making a profit, so don't set the lawman on me. _

_I know this chapter is very short. However, there is a reason for that. The next part jumps ahead a couple of months, so I didn't want to combine the two time-frames. This just wraps up the current section. _

GOLD FEVER

PART 7

CHASING THE MOON

_Once upon a time, before she found out about me being in love with that angel and kicked me out of her school, my teacher told me a story about a boy who fell in love with the moon. Myself, I don't know what that big, white, shiny circle in the sky has to offer, but she could bottle it, sell it and be a billionaire. Anyway, this boy had his mind set on taking her for his wife, so, for weeks and weeks, he brought her little offerings. The song of a mermaid in a seashell. A necklace of raindrops. A feather from the wings of a gryphon. You know, the typical, fairytale shit. But this moon was a difficult mistress to woo. No matter what he brought her, it just wasn't good enough for her. She sat up in the sky and laughed down at him. _

_At last, he asked her daddy, the sky, what he had to do to win her hand. Daddy evidently wanted to marry her off, so he said to this boy that his daughter bathed every night in a pool in the forest. If he wanted to get her, he should weave a net out of silver thread and throw it over her while she was swimming. If he could hold her until morning, she would be his wife._

_ So the boy did what he said and spent all his money to buy a net of silver. The smith, of course, thought he was half-cracked. That night, he snuck down to the forest and caught the moon bathing in the pool as the sky had said. Being the sort of unnatural boy who didn't lose all good sense at the sight of a naked woman, he threw his net over her and drew the ends together. The moon struggled and screamed and swore, but she couldn't get free. When morning came, she told him that she gave up and that she would be his wife and obey him in everything, if he would only let her out.  _

_Feeling very pleased with himself, the boy opened the net and let the moon out of it. In her turn, she smiled at him and told him that she wanted to show herself to him in all her beauty and radiance if that was what he wanted. Being a man, he was thrilled. To my knowledge, there ain't a man alive who would turn down a prettier wife, even if they were married to the Belle of the South. So, she smiled and she became brighter and brighter until he couldn't stand to look at her. Boy went blind, and the moon escaped . . . The moral of the story is that you should be happy with what you got. Guess I never quite got it. Since then, I've been chasing the moon or the closest thing I can get to it in this world, because one moment of that glory's worth a lifetime of blindness._

A satisfied smirk on his face, Remy stepped over the bleeding body of a gambler lying unconscious in the doorway and out of the chaos that the saloon had become. A chair crashed into the wall behind him and a rough voice cursed him for a coward, but he paid the insult no attention. It would be a good few hours before the Wolverine recovered from the drug Kate had slipped him and was able to come after them, but he wanted to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Moonshine Creek in that time. 

The sheriff hadn't gotten his reputation for hunting down any criminal and setting them swinging from the gallows' tree for nothing, and Remy himself was good enough to know it was probably best not to tangle with him.

Tipping his hat to the woman at the counter and grimacing sympathetically at her frightened expression, he made his way out of the hotel. If all went according to plan, Kate would be waiting for him at the hitching rail, their horses saddled and ready to ride. He was not sure exactly where they would go. It would probably be best to go to some no-name tent-town and lay low for a couple of months until the worst of the fuss blew over. No-one asked too many questions of you in a place like that; they just assumed that you had come in search of the same gold as them. And he was sure they could find something to do to occupy the long, boring months spent in hiding . . . . 

"Ready to hit the road, girl?" he called as he rounded the corner to where the hitching rail stood, "I know I'm sick of Moon –"

The words died in his mouth. His horse was tied to the rail, stamping and whickering impatiently to be off. Its saddle lay in the dust beside it, along with the contents of its saddlebags. Shirts, pants and boots were strewn all over the ground, and his playing cards had been scattered to the winds. There was no sign of Kate or her horse, and he realised with a groan that she had double-crossed him . . . . 

Stars streaming past her in the sky, long grass brushing against her legs, Kate rode low in her saddle through the prairie night. Her horse was breathing heavily and its coat was shiny with sweat, but she couldn't afford to stop and rest it. Even with having to saddle up his horse and pick up his clothes, Remy could not be more than half-an-hour behind her.

She did not know exactly when she had decided to double-cross him. She had left the saloon intending to saddle their horses and ride away with him, but the heaviness of the bag in her hands had soon got her thinking about the amount of money in it. A million had a far better sound to it than half-a-million. It was the sort of amount you read about in storybooks about pirates and robbers, and she had been holding it in her hands. Even though half of it would have been more than enough to make her a rich woman several times over, she had not been able to bear the thought of parting with even a cent of it. 

Besides, she had reasoned, she had been the one to take the bigger risk, so she deserved to get the reward. No-one would think twice about the gentleman gambler who'd started the fight in the saloon, but the Wolverine would inevitably talk to the prissy barmaid and she'd soon point him in the direction of the whore with a white streak in her hair. If she was to be hunted by one man, she might as well be hunted by two. A million would buy her all the peace of mind she needed. 

It was a shame in some ways, she thought. Remy was as beautiful as the sin you never had the nerve to commit, and it could have been fun having a tumble in the hay with him. However, half-a-million was too much to pay for a few fleeting moments of pleasure, and it would never have become anything more than that. He wasn't the marrying type, any more than she was. They were both like the skylarks that flew above the prairies, soaring higher and higher into the air until they disappeared against the sun, never coming down to ground again. If she couldn't have the freedom of the plains and the wide-open skies above them, she would be miserable. 

Gripping tightly onto the reins with her hands, she glanced over her shoulder in order to check that the saddlebags with the money were still in place. If she rode through the night, she could be in River's Run by dawn. She could swop her horse for a fresh one, get a hot meal and change of clothes and be on the road again before Remy caught up with her. 

A smile on her face, Kate touched her heels to the horse's side and flew through the night. 

TO BE CONTINUED 


	8. Katherine May

**GOLD FEVER**

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**'KATHERINE MAY'**

There were times when Paige Guthrie just wanted to scream about what her life had become. 

When she'd been younger, she'd dreamt of moving to Atlanta or Charleston, somewhere elegant and glamorous where the women wore silk dresses and the men tipped their hats to you. There, she'd become the most famous actress in the South, starring opposite all the best actors in all the latest plays. As a skinny, dirty kid, she would stand on the steps of their homestead and recite the poems they had to learn for school to their big, old dog. Even then, she had been able to hear the applause of the crowd and smell the roses as they landed around her feet.

Instead, she'd ended up becoming a schoolmarm in the one cow town that she'd always sworn that she would escape. She'd had no choice when her daddy had gotten sick with the same disease that was the death of most of the miners in the town. Doc Baker had said that it was from breathing in the black dust day after day and that there was nothing he could do to heal him. He couldn't work in the mines any more, but their family still had needed to be clothed and fed, and it had fallen on the two oldest children to do so. So, Sam had gone to mine for gold in Midas Creek, and she'd taken up a position at the village school.

If Hope Springs had been a more lively place, Paige might not have felt like she was the one under the death sentence instead of her daddy. If it hadn't been founded by a religious man who had placed a church at the centre of their town and refused to allow drinking, dancing or acting anywhere near it, she might even have been happy there. As it was, there was only one interesting person in the whole town, and she wasn't the sort of person whom schoolmarms were normally allowed to associate with.  

Katherine May had come to Hope Springs a few months ago – a tall, beautiful woman with dark curls and brilliant, green eyes- and the townsfolk had been gossiping about her ever since. It was plain by her expensive home and manner of dress that she was fantastically wealthy, but no-one knew where she had gotten her money. Some people said that she had worked as a whore and made it all on her back; others that she'd married a wealthy man and run away with all his money. Either way, everyone agreed that she wasn't respectable. Strange men had been seen entering her house in the evening and only coming out the next morning. She had been overheard buying bottles of moonshine from the mountain folk. Worst of all, she had never been in the big, white church at the centre of town on a Sunday. While decent, God-fearing folk were singing hymns and listening to the pastor preach, she stayed at home. Dot McAllister was sure she had seen an idol in her front room, and said it was a crying shame to have a heathen like her in their nice town. Paige didn't care about any of that. For her, Katherine May was like a glimmer of gold among all the dust of Hope Springs. She would never have the courage to pay her a call or even to greet in the streets, but just knowing she was in the town was enough to make life just a little bit less ordinary. She bet there were scores of women like Katherine May in the big city. 

In new irritation, Paige kicked her legs against the side of the bench. She was sitting outside the schoolhouse waiting for her pupils to arrive, although she knew she would be lucky to see any of them today. It was harvest season, and their folks needed all the help they could get to bring in their crops. Even if they weren't farmer's kids, they'd hang around the fields in hope of getting a job and the money that came with it. They didn't make much hauling in crops, but it was more than they earned sitting around in school and learning their tables. As their parents always said when she tried to encourage them to send their children to school, money in their pocket was more use than knowledge in their heads. 

As a result, Paige was surprised to notice a figure coming down the long path towards the schoolhouse a few minutes later. Tall and slim with a graceful easiness about him, he might have been the oldest of Riley boys. She had not expected to see any of them until harvest season was over – their father had five acres under wheat this year, and every hand would be needed to bring it in. 

"Mornin', Zeke," she called, standing up and dusting off her gingham skirt, "I didn't expect . . ." 

She broke off with a blush as the man drew closer and she saw his face. He certainly wasn't Zeke Riley with his thatch of sandy hair and broken nose that had never healed straight. He was easily the most good-looking man she had ever seen; the sort of man you had to look at twice to make sure that he was real.

"Sorry to disturb you, chere," he nodded his greeting, "I'm looking for a friend of mine." 

"W-who?" she squeaked. She could have kicked herself for it. She had always thought of herself as elegant and sophisticated, fully the equal of any situation. 

"Her name's Kate," he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and came out with a crumpled sheet of paper. Unfolding it, he held it out to her. She took it from him, her face growing even hotter as her hand brushed against his smooth one. It was the hand of a gentleman, she thought, not hardened or calloused by working in the fields or the mines. 

Glad of the opportunity to hide her embarrassment, she looked down at the sheet he had given her. It was a pencil sketch of a woman - her mouth was curved in an arch smile and her eyes met Paige's challengingly. 

"This is . . . Katherine May?" she exclaimed, not sure why she was so surprised by that. Katherine May was the only person in Hope Springs who would know a man like this. 

"She live around here, chere?" his eyes were intent. 

"Y-yes. On Main Street. In the old McAllister place," she handed the paper back to him. 

"Merci, chere. Been looking for my Kate for a long time," he smiled at her, "Au revoir."

"Awevwah," she echoed vaguely, as he turned and walked back down the path. 

Her mind was racing like a wild horse set free. If she hadn't misheard him and she knew he hadn't, the man had just called Katherine May _his Kate. Did that mean he was her husband? She wondered if all the crazy rumours about her were true, if she had stolen his money and he had come to get it back from her. It wasn't very likely, but then nothing about Katherine May was. Paige suddenly wished that she hadn't told him where to find her. If she were honest with herself, she'd been taken in by his handsome face and charming manners, and hadn't thought twice about blabbing everything to him. She'd forgotten her momma's advice that all that glittered was not necessarily gold. _

"You're a proper idiot, Paige Guthrie," she sighed, "God, I hope Katherine May's gonna be all right." 

***

Kate lay stretched out on the divan, idly swirling a tumbler of moonshine in front of her. A whirlpool was forming in the middle of the clear, slightly oily liquid, catching reflections of the room around her and pulling them into its centre. She was not yet drunk, but she fully intended to be by the time the morning was over. It was the only way she knew of surviving her time in Hope Springs, a town that had been founded by people whose idea of fun was singing hymns and handling snakes. 

It was the perfect place to hide until all the fuss passed, of course. Nobody would suspect pious, strait-laced Hope Springs of harbouring a thief. It was a town where people still left their doors unlocked at night and their valuables in plain sight, because it was a mortal sin to covet let alone to steal. If Kate hadn't been lying low, she might have shown them that everyone wasn't afraid of burning in hellfire forever. It took all of her self-control to keep from creeping out by night and helping the folk of Hope Springs to share their possessions as the good book commanded. It wasn't that she needed the money after the heist that she'd pulled in Moonshine Creek, but she missed the thrill of being a thief. She missed the excitement of planning a pinch, and the afterglow of knowing that she had executed it well. She even missed the lightning shiver of fear that came on hearing movement in the hallway and knowing that the people were awake. Remy had been right when he had said that they had gold dust in their blood and couldn't get it out. 

Kate had found that she had been thinking more and more about Remy lately. As much as she hated to admit it, she'd made a damn stupid choice by double-crossing him and riding away with the money. With a price on her head and the Wolverine on her trail, the last thing she needed was another enemy looking to hunt her down and turn her over to the law. The extra half-a-million wouldn't matter much to her when she was swinging from the gallows' tree. It wasn't only that, however. She'd forgotten how lonely the outlaw life could be. The company of an interesting man would have made it much more bearable, especially when he looked like Remy did. 

She downed the moonshine, making a face at its bitter taste, and lay back on the divan. It wasn't fine liquor, but it was strong and it worked. She could already feel its warmth beginning to spread through her, lifting her up and taking her away from herself. She closed her eyes and let herself drift into sleep. 

Kate had been dozing for quite some time when the knock on the door came. She sat up on the divan, dizzy and slightly nauseous from the moonshine. Slowly and clumsily, she got to her feet and rearranged her hair in its previous sleek bun. She didn't even try to fix her linen dress, which was rumpled and creased beyond any hope of smoothing. With her luck, it would be Dot McAllister come to pray for her again, and she didn't want to give the old biddies in town something else to gossip about. 

"I'm coming," she called, giving her hair a final pat and walking to the door. She undid the chain and pulled it open to greet her visitor. She felt her insides turn to water when she saw the man standing there. 

"Found you at last," Remy said mildly.  

***

TO BE CONTINUED 

***


End file.
